“Why have we come here?” asked one of the monks, surveying the dismal scene with a shudder.

“To seek the bodies of the Lady Cicely and her woman, and give them Christian burial,” answered the Abbot.

“After bringing them to a most unchristian death,” muttered the monk to himself, then added aloud, “You were ever charitable, my Lord Abbot, and though she defied you, such is that noble lady’s due.  As for the nurse Emlyn, she was a witch, and did but come to the end that she deserved, if she be really dead.”

“What mean you?” asked the Abbot sharply.

“I mean that, being a witch, the fire may have turned from her.”

“Pray God, then, that it turned from her mistress also!  But it cannot be.  Only a fiend could have lived in the heat of that furnace; look, even the tower is gutted.”

“No, it cannot be,” answered the monk; “so, since we shall never find them, let us chant the Burial Office over this great grave of theirs and begone—­the sooner the better, for yon place has a haunted look.”

“Not till we have searched out their bones, which must be beneath the tower yonder, whereon we saw them last,” replied the Abbot, adding in a low voice, “Remember, Brother, the Lady Cicely had jewels of great price, which, if they were wrapped in leather, the fire may have spared, and these are among our heritage.  At Shefton they cannot be found; therefore they must be here, and the seeking of them is no task for common folk.  That is why I hurried hither so fast.  Do you understand?”

The monk nodded his head.  Having dismounted, they gave their horses to the serving-men and began to make an examination of the ruin, the Abbot leaning on his inferior’s arm, for he was in great pain from the blow in the back that Jeffrey had administered with his sea-boot, and the bruises which he had received in falling to the boat.

First they passed under the gatehouse, which still stood, only to find that the courtyard beyond was so choked with smouldering rubbish that they could make no entry—­for it will be remembered that the house had fallen outwards.  Here, however, lying by the carcass of a horse, they found the body of one of the men whom Christopher had killed in his last stand, and caused it to be borne out.  Then, followed by their people, leaving the dead man in the gateway, they walked round the ruin, keeping on the inner side of the moat, till they came to the little pleasaunce garden at its back.

“Look,” said the monk in a frightened voice, pointing to some scorched bushes that had been a bower.

The Abbot did so, but for a while could see nothing because of the wreaths of steam.  Presently a puff of wind blew these aside, and there, standing hand in hand, he beheld the figures of two women.  His men beheld them also, and called aloud that these were the ghosts of Cicely and Emlyn.  As they spoke the figures, still hand in hand, began to walk towards them, and they saw that they were Cicely and Emlyn indeed, but in the flesh, quite unharmed.